


Island

by Auroradiation



Category: Frankenstein - Mary Shelley
Genre: Incest, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:07:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25925620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Auroradiation/pseuds/Auroradiation
Summary: Ernest visited his brother in the asylum.
Relationships: Ernest Frankenstein/Victor Frankenstein
Comments: 8
Kudos: 17





	Island

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [孤岛](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23060230) by [Auroradiation](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Auroradiation/pseuds/Auroradiation). 



> I want to say thank you to my dear friend SaltyMoon who wrote this wonderful work for me, and to the nicest [Beginning_Returner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beginning_Returner/pseuds/Beginning_Returner/works) who helped me with my translation. You are the best.

1.

Victor’s confession reminded Ernest of the bedtime stories his brother had read to him.

Victor would sit by the lamp, holding a book. He told intriguing tales, and some boring ones. But once in a while, if Ernest insisted, he would tell his little brother something dreadful, stories which should only be uttered within the blessed realm of the Lord. In those stories, there were livid skins and pale claws, like this one, like the one he’s talking about.

“I... I have created the most horrible monster in the world.” Victor said.

“You are sick.” Ernest said, “come, brother, let’s leave... Your mind isn’t clear. ”

“I’m not sick. If I am, it would only be one of the punishments for my sin. You have to believe me, Ernest. If I could go back to my laboratory — Pray that I have the courage, I would show you the evidence. I have created something that does not belong to this earth, the most horrible monster in the world. Why won’t you believe me, Ernest?”

_Because you are sick. You are feverish. You are heated with passion. You don’t know what you are talking about. Your pupils are dilated and eyes gleaming; some say it’s the proof of demonic possession. You are gripping my wrists with so much force your nails sink into my skin. You were never like this. You are caught in an delusion, lost in delirium. You lean against me when my hands reach for your cheeks, not knowing what you are doing, or what I am doing..._

But beneath all that noise, Ernest believed his brother, like he was still a child, believing every story he heard.

“I have created the most horrible monster in the world.”

_You did, but more than one, more than one._

_What he said was true — if he could make me a sinner, surely, he could also summon a demon from hell,_ Ernest thought, with some hidden pride lurking inside. Victor’s eyes were flickering, his body was shaking. Ernest took the cross from his neck and put it around Victor's. _Gracious Father — I pray that you bring him back._ Then, Ernest leaned forward and kissed him, with a lover’s tongue. Maybe he was the one whose soul had parted from his being, a part of him wanting Victor to come back, another wanting him to give in — And Victor did not refuse him, not at all.

So he knew he misplaced his trust. His brother was only mad.

2.

Ernest Frankenstein fixed his collar, trying to face the other’s gaze calmly. The guard who stood before him was old and hunchbacked, the lantern in his hand just as decrepit. Ernest on the other hand was young, tall and well dressed, the way he walked telling of his parentage. But despite all that, sympathy filled the guard’s gaze; He pitied this broad-shouldered young man.

Ernest turned away from his gentle eyes and stared into the dim lantern light. He wished it would be brighter so that he could use it as an excuse to wipe away his tears. Ernest was twenty, and the second eldest son of the family, but he was neither fully prepared to grow up, nor ready to see his brother in a place like this.

The stone walls around the asylum were crawling with ivy, which should have been a decoration. But it’s the third month of Victor’s disappearance, and summer’s departure was even earlier than that of his brother’s. Ernest could hear only the rustle of falling leaves as the night wind howled. 

The old guard was still watching him. His benevolence was more than Ernest could bear, be it the suggestion for him to revisit in the morning, or the sincere sympathy in his eyes. Ernest lowered his head before such compassion. “I have to see him,” he said, “I am his only family now.”

3.

Ernest thought of nothing as he kissed Victor, so he could remember every detail, and feel the heat of Victor’s body seeping into his. He heard a faint whimper, too indistinct to tell whom it was from. Ernest seemed too calm to be in lust. But then again, he was calm enough to realize there was fire burning inside him. They broke the kiss, and Victor tried to return to the subject, as if not knowing it was a kiss that silenced him. Insanity withers one's ethics and morals. Ernest kissed him again to hush him. Victor stared back at him, reached up and tried to push Ernest away, the chains around his waist jingling. Ernest held one of Victor's arms close; the place was too dark to see anything. He felt like he was clutching a piece of bone.

“What happened?” Ernest asked.

Victor dropped his eyes, “I can’t hurt myself in these chains.”

“Hurt yourself?” Ernest asked, “What did you do, Victor?”

Victor said nothing, so Ernest said nothing too. He kissed his brother attentively, hands reaching under his clothes.

4.

The corridor was lengthy and gloomy, the air smelt of moldy wood and mossy stone. Victor was confined in the innermost chamber, the little ventilation it had made it no less stifling than the corridor. The guard handed Ernest the lantern, since the young man was much taller, and it would be easier for him to go back to sleep in his shed when they were half way through the corridor. Ernest stopped him before he left.

“My brother,” Ernest said, “Victor Frankenstein...When did you find him?”

“A month ago.”

So Victor has been kept here for a month now.

Ernest listened as the sound of footsteps grew distant, and at last disappeared into the darkness. He sensed a strange horror, which he shouldn't; he was only here to see his brother, yet vacillation entwined his heart. In a split second, he called to mind the brief moment he had spent with his brother three months ago before Victor’s tragic wedding night. Upon Victor's writing desk, he found a letter drenched in ink, none of its writings were legible, but it was evident that the writer was seized by frenzy as the nib of his pen etched into the paper, carving it with acute dents. Ernest, then not yet twenty, traced his hand along the words and shuddered at the terror of its revelation, his fingers blackened by ink: _How ignorant was I, to let myself walk towards my own sin._

A rather befitting description for this moment.

Ernest's soles clattered as they tapped on the flagstones.

5.

Victor didn't seem to realize he was being fucked. His body was sensitive and responsive, but his mind was dozing elsewhere. Ernest caressed his neck and heard a dreamy groan. Victor's blue eyes were half-shut and clouded in mist; had others seen them, they might think of the night sky.

There was a Venetian glass mirror in Mrs. Frankenstein's bedroom. Next to it was a portrait of her and her eldest son who shared so much of her likeness. Then she died and her room was sealed, leaving the mirror to be covered in dust, year after year. Ernest had sneaked in there many times, to see the portrait, to see the one who would never return and the other who had gone away. He had never once looked into the mirror, only treading around it carefully, lest the hem of his coat or the tips of his fingers should leave any trace. But now, all the memories and old dust re-emerged with such clarity, that it was as if it was his heart that was covered in dust. Ernest’s fingers moved up to Victor’s chin, forcing his head to turn aside. He feared that if his brother blinked, that pair of eyes would reflect his face.

Victor shivered under his fingers. Ernest’s heart tightened. Twice, Victor tried to turn back his head, but Ernest held him still, pressing his brother’s cheek against the straw as Victor moaned. The third time, Victor put his arms around Ernest’s shoulder, drawing him closer, and Ernest was too desperate to resist. Victor raised his head and looked him in the face, his eyes as clear and bright as a mirror. Ernest did not notice whether he himself was in them or not. He looked only at his brother.

“Ernest?” Victor said.

As if it was the first time they had ever met. As if they weren’t locked in venereal congress.

“Yes.” Ernest said, “Are you awake now?”

Victor reached out and caressed his face.

"Am I dying?” He said, closing his eyes and opening them again.

"Why do you ask?” Ernest said quietly.

He put his arms around his brother and they fell on the straw together. Victor began to groan, and there is resignation in his voice, not like one saturated by lust. Ernest recalled some gentler nights surrounded by fairy-tales. He moved the lantern closer, and picked out the bits of straw and hay from Victor’s hair. He felt calm, but his hands were shaking. He was afraid of the dawn after all, he thought.

Victor pressed his forehead against Ernest’s shoulder, murmured, “Because my wish has come true... Ernest, a dying man's wish will always be granted. For my sin, I don't think God, however generous he may be, would show me mercy again.”

Ernest clasped Victor’s cheek tremblingly, before cupping both of his hands around Victor’s face, holding him like he was holding a palmful of water. He wanted Victor to look at him, to hear him word by word. Victor is not guilty; it’s all but an illusion, a curable disease. But he was nevertheless afraid of Victor’s gaze. Ernest recalled Victor’s confession, afraid that Victor might see on him the remnants of William and Father, afraid that his brother would be trapped in delirium forever, afraid that he himself would reflect his morbidity. He lifted his hand, covering Victor’s eyes, whispered, "Do you wish to see me?" Victor said nothing, his tears seeping through Ernest’s palm. Tranquility filled Ernest. He said, "do you know what wish would I make, if I were to die right now?" Victor said nothing. Ernest continued: "I would wish for them to come back, all of them." 

Victor began to struggle, kicking Ernest with his feet. But he did not have much strength to resist when Ernest tugged his ankle and pulled it back around his waist. Victor tried to bite him when they kissed, but he cried so hard he couldn't even close his teeth. He leaned closer to Ernest's ear, sobbing and shivering as his brother thrust deeper and deeper into him, saying: "Dead is dead." 

6.

The walk along the corridor reminded Ernest of the night sky and the view of the countryside he had seen many years ago when his father brought him to town during the night. They were to meet his brother there, who had just come back from the university. By then Ernest was thirteen and his memory of Victor’s face had long faded into shadows. He expected nothing except the return of his brother when his father left him to wait in the hotel room under a servant’s care. The bed sheets in the hotel had a smell of mildew which reminded Ernest of his mother’s chamber. Suddenly there came a creak. Ernest looked up and saw his father push open the door and two steps behind him, stood his elder brother.

The moment when Victor smiled at him, Ernest understood why his father would choose to send his brother away in less than a month after their mother's death. _If Victor had been around me all this time,_ he thought, _I would forget our mother’s face forever._

7.

"I’m cursed." Victor said as Ernest pressed his cheek against the straw.

"I’m cursed," Victor said as he stood in front of the door leading to the bridal chamber.

Inside the chamber, lying in the bed, was Elisabeth.

Her neck hung limply from the edge of the bed, hair hanging down and piling on the floor. Ernest helped Victor to a chair by the bed before he walked closer to the deceased and covered her face with a quilt. Perhaps man is shaped by the first death he encounters, he thought, and the memory of his mother flashed back with irresistible force. Her death was not sudden, but her withering befell only at the instant when her breath ebbed away. Her cheeks sunk, long hair still shining under the light as before. Ernest watched her until his elder brother led him to another room. More than a decade later, when he looked at Elizabeth who lay dead in her bed —— his sister who lay dead in her bed —— it occurred to him that this time, it was him who led Victor to a chair.

Perhaps it wasn’t death that shaped him.

"I’m cursed," Victor said when Ernest found him months later.

Ernest pinched Victor’s chin and pinned him to the ground, lowering himself to lick and kiss his neck. He thought to himself vaguely, _you are cursed, but who cursed you? Is it me? Is it me who stared at your back at the funeral?_ Some rootless hate kindled inside him at the thought, as if he was still a child, and all the wrongs he did should be fully shouldered by the grown-ups. Such hatred was so feeble that when Victor raised his hand to touch him on the back, Ernest let it go.

Victor's hand rested on his back for a moment, and then, slowly, inch by inch, it moved to his face, and wiped away his tears.

_If anyone were to kill me for my sin,_ Ernest thought, _I would wish Victor to live well before I die._

"Victor,” he whispered, "Victor, do you know what crossed my mind when I just saw you?”

Victor only groaned under his thrusts.

8.

Ernest knocked on the wooden door before laughing at himself inwardly. He unlocked the door with the key tied to the handle of the oil lantern. It creaked as he pushed it open. Ernest held the lantern up and stepped in. The darkness of the night enclosed the dim yellow light of the lantern, which could only illuminate a few inches of space around him as he slowly walked forward. Ernest stood in a small sphere of light, searching for his brother. "Victor?" he called, "Victor? Brother?" He heard a tinkling sound somewhere in the darkness, but no one answered. It was the wind that answered him. Only then did he realize even a place like this had a window. He coughed as a plume of dust rose from the rustling straw. The lantern’s flame flicked crazily and made him suspect it might go out in any minute. Then, the moon came out, and the whole room was brightened.

And there in its light, Ernest saw Victor, curled up. 

9.

Victor's eyelashes cast a heavy shadow and Ernest suddenly realized it was night. His mother had died in the night and his brother left in the morning a few weeks after. He'd watched as the carriage went on, the tracks it left behind carved into the rain-drenched earth. Ernest was only ten, and had never left the town. He thought he could go anywhere in the world, if he wanted to. A decade later, right here in this night, as he looked at the shadow on his brother's face, ominous and delicate as moth wings, all the stories he heard of the night rose up, blotting out the sun and sky. He curled up inside them, trying to pretend Victor was only a dream. But Victor's hands were so warm; High fever had made him a sun. One touch from him was enough to make Ernest wish everything that happened tonight was real. Ernest broke away from Victor’s hands and reached for the lantern beside him in the straw. He moved the lantern closer, inch by inch, and for a moment, Victor's dark hair was turned to gold.

“You got thinner, brother.” Ernest said.

Victor murmured something, some random phrases that seemed to confirm the departure of his spirit from this world, but the warmth of his body lingered on. How ephemeral was the warmth formed by their parents’ flesh and bone. Parts of Victor's trembling skin were illuminated and then quickly lost in the darkness as Ernest pressed the lantern close, its tiny circle of light floating downward. He followed the light in bewilderment and kissed Victor everywhere. The light went down and down... Until Victor took hold of Ernest's hand, and then the lamp, his palm resting against the glass of the lantern and glowing in foggy, smothering red. Ernest put down the lantern obediently, and did as Victor wished, turning his attention back to a more decent place.

He felt Victor's tears and trembling lips.

He fumbled for another kiss, then pressed his forehead against Victor’s, his light gold hair merging with Victor’s dark curls, like a candle slipping into the night. _We're a part of each other again,_ Ernest thought as he grabbed Victor's wrists. Victor groaned at the overwhelming sensations triggered by Ernest’s every movement. His breath was even hotter than his skin. Ernest sincerely hoped this was caused by lust, a kind of plague his brother referred to as God's Punishment. Ernest pulled away from the kiss so that Victor could breathe. For a moment, the thought of dying together crossed his young heart. He looked down. Victor’s hair was moist with sweat, his skin pure white; as if he was born out of the darkness of the night, and Ernest was his conjoined twin.

Ernest did not think of sin as he lowered himself onto Victor again. What flashed through his mind were the tracks that carved into the bounteous and rain-trenched land, that stretched into the unknown.

Victor murmured again.

“Why...”

10.

Victor's hair had grown longer. It tangled in Ernest’s fingers when he raised Victor up from the corner. Victor was awake, staring at him with his eyes wide open. He still didn't answer any of Ernest’s questions, but every time he moved, there was a clinking sound —— now Ernest knew where the sound was coming from. His brother had been taken for a madman and put into shackles. Ernest reached for his brother's chained up wrist; Victor's blue eyes followed his hand in silence. Ernest’s hands, tanned by riding under the sun, clutched Victor’s pale wrist, like a snake entwined with another. Victor was too thin, his bone pressing into Ernest’s palm. Ernest felt like crying again. He cried out in a low voice, "brother?” and reached out to feel Victor's face. Victor's cheeks are still soft and plump, as they were three months ago.

For the first time in three months, Ernest felt he had broken free from endless funerals and returned to the world of the living. The immeasurable world of death was cut short by Victor's warmth.

He put his arms around Victor, who fell lightly into his arms. He told him about the past three months: half of the time was spent arranging the affairs of the dead, the other half spent looking for him. He took off his coat and wrapped it around Victor, who was still covered in flecks of straw. Ernest let go off his brother reluctantly to tighten his collar, a roll of thoughts rushing through his mind: He needs to hire a carriage, and buy a goose down quilt to put in it as well; He will take Victor home at first light and get him a doctor, and some new servants too; God knows what Victor has been through for the past three months; God knows Victor... Why...

Why was he so quiet?

He straightened Victor’s collar and looked up. His brother looked even smaller in his coat. Victor looked at him with those quiet blue eyes, almost frightening, his pointed chin hedged in by Ernest’s black coat, a flake of white inlaid into black. The kerosene lantern was placed next to Victor so that it would at least provide some warmth. And now, Ernest realized clearly how tender and familiar was the part of Victor’s face shrouded in light, that half belonged to his brother, who was rarely happy, but always smiled, and brought him along during outings; but the other half that was shrouded in the moonlight...

His chin was sharp, his face colorless, his hair dark, his eyes pale blue as if the small debris of moon and sea had dropped in them, and Victor's face, looked so much like their dying mother.

Ernest, bewildered, raised his hand and touched Victor's face again. He felt glad at its warmth. He couldn’t help but smile, for being liberated from the kingdom of death. Ernest's thoughts raced again: After they get back home, they will...

Victor's voice was tight, trembling, and cold.

"Leave me here, Ernest," he said. "Why bring back a murderer?"

11.

“Why?” Victor asked.

_Because you are my brother, Ernest thought. Because the moon has driven you mad, you don't know what you're talking about. Because I am all you have and you are all I have. Because when I was a child, when your story reached an unhappy ending, I asked you why, and you never answered me._

Ernest leaned over and kissed his brother. He tasted rust and cold, like the sinner's silver tongue. Above him, there must be something that saw all this. Victor's wide eyes were big and blue, reflecting the shadow of the being who judges all. And the judgement that came down from the Lord's abode was mirrored by his brother's disregard. Ernest enfolded his brother in his arms and wished he'd stay silent.

12.

Ernest’s hands reached under Victor’s clothes, more searching for warmth than fondling. He pressed his cheek to Victor’s chest, even though that chest was so thin in comparison. He heard the sound of heartbeats, a living heart, a sound that made him feel justified in courting again, as the only other survivor on the island. Ernest raised his head to kiss him before he heard a tinkle, different from the sound made by the chains around Victor's wrist. The buttons of the coat had knocked against the glass of the lantern as it fell over. It didn't take much effort to lift up a lantern, but Ernest only lay there and wondered if the oil would spill over the straw. He waited quietly, suppressing the urge to right the lantern, like how he suppressed his reflex, to look straight into Victor’s mirror-like blue eyes.

Light moved from left to right as Victor lifted the lamp.

“Ernest.” He said, a bit grumpily. 

“You almost burned the place.”

Ernest looked silently at those familiar, calm eyes.

And realized in despair that he didn't really dare to kiss his brother again.

13.

They sat on the pile of straw and talked. Victor, the one who was more vulnerable to the cold, was still wrapped in Ernest's coat. The lantern lay at their feet, its flame growing fainter. But it would soon be dawn anyway. Once the sun is out, Ernest thought, he would meet with whoever was in charge of the place and ask for a thicker quilt, and then find someone to help him hire a steadier carriage. At that, he turned his head and looked at Victor. Half of Victor’s face was covered by the coat, his eyes wandering, as if he covered himself because of sheer coldness, not because of the kisses burned into his neck.

"You need to come back with me either way," Ernest said, "Some documents Father left still need your signature."

“I thought I already dealt with some of the affairs before the funeral.” Victor said.

“...Only three days after that, you disappeared.” Ernest said quietly, “Three days, the soil on our father's grave was still wet.”

Victor turned to look at him. If not, he would never have noticed Ernest was murmuring something.

"Pardon?" Victor asked.

"What were you saying?" He asked again.

Ernest blinked quickly and cleared his throat.

"You missed my twentieth birthday." he said, in a very low voice.

Victor looked at him quietly. It took a long time for Ernest to realize that he was measuring him with his eyes inch by inch. Victor's voice became a little hoarse, "Um," he said, "Um..."

"Ernest," Victor said softly, "You have grown taller. You have grown up more. You look like our father now."

14.

"Let me come with you, brother." Ernest said, holding the carriage door and leaning in.

"That won’t do." Victor said.

"Why do you have to leave, then?" Ernest asked.

"For the people I love." Victor said. Ernest lowered his eyes, for a short moment, the thought of death flashing through his mind. "For the love for family, brother?" he asked quietly.

Victor looked at him... It was hard to imagine a pale face like his could smile. The moment when Ernest saw that smile, he understood how untimely was the absurdity of a youth, and his dew lover —— his flesh and blood —— did not understand what he was talking about.

"For the love for humanity, my dear Ernest." Victor said softly, "I will send that unworldly creature to where it belongs."

Ernest only lowered his head, knowing that in the late autumn, the tracks the carriage left behind would never be as deep.


End file.
